


Whip me Softly

by DefenstrationProtestation (Sand_Cursive)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Default name MC, F/M, Feathers & Featherplay, Gender-neutral Reader, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Massage, Penetrative Sex, Wax Play, Yuki the name is Yuki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24981088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/DefenstrationProtestation
Summary: The gentlest domming of the eldest demon brother. Would it be so bad to let someone else take care of him, every once in a while?
Relationships: Lucifer (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Lucifer/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 205





	Whip me Softly

**Author's Note:**

> I interrupted my in-progress Lucifer fic to write this because. I mean. Because.  
>  ~~Bottom Lucy rights~~

From a distance, you can appreciate the way the firelight plays over his face. Molten orange and warm, caressing the strong bones of his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw. It makes the wells of his eyes seem deeper, the ridge of his eyebrows burnished and glowing. Like a painting come alive.

The illusion is wrecked if you step too close. 

You put your book down on the side table. The half-glass of Demonus beside it is illuminated by the fire, garnet and almost lit from within. You bend forwards, unstopper the decanter and pour a generous portion into the elaborately cut crystal. Lean back and take a long, slow sip, eyes fixed on the demon currently seated at his desk.

You’re more than happy just to spend some time together, silently spinning in each others orbits, but. It’s getting late. From your position, curled up on the chair angled slightly towards him, you can see the way the lines of his shoulders are getting stiffer, the way he has to shake out his wrist each time he turns a page. You slide off the seat. 

The fireplace is at your back as you walk silently over. He’s reached the impossible stage of peak fatigue and efficiency, holding to focus so tightly you can almost see the tensing of muscle in his arms. You would probably have to make some _significant_ noise for him to hear it. Even when you’re right beside him, close enough to _touch_ , he doesn’t look up. 

You reach up and turn off the lamp at his other side, settling the papers on his desk into darkness. There’s other ambient lighting in here, of course, but it’s so _dim_ (some absurd aesthetic choice in combination with a demon’s sensitivity to brightness, you’re sure). Lucifer puts the pen in his hand very deliberately on the table. The nib glints, flickering flames reflected in the scant millimetre of clean surface not spattered with ink.

You hand him the glass that you’ve carried over, and he accepts it gratefully, bare fingers brushing against your skin. He’s just slightly cold to the touch. 

“Are you going to bed?” he asks, the palliative effects of the drink already clear in the soft cadence of his voice. His eyes flick off to the side, a conspicuously pale rectangle on the desk where you’re sure a clock must once have stood. It’s a reflexive slip. He looks back into the glass, swirling so the muted colours of the liquid catch the light. 

You lean casually over his desk and pick up his pen, take the soft red cloth sitting just at the edge. Clean the nib with careful, even strokes as he continues to sip. “Yes,” you say finally, slotting it back into its holder. “And so are you.”

He makes a familiar face: going through the motions of arguing with you, because he feels like he _should_ , even if you can already read his uncomfortable relief. But that’s alright. You don’t mind being his excuse. 

You rest a hand on his shoulder, kneading gently into the knot of tension that’s built up over the last . . . what? Three hours? Four? Six? He unwinds beneath you, willing. Easy. You bend down, let your lips brush against the shell of his ear. “You know I can’t sleep as well without you.”

“I really _do_ need to get these papers done . . .” A statement of fact without conviction. You turn your head, brush a kiss against his temple. His hair is black satin tinged with grey, perfume of wood smoke and leather. “At the expense of your exchange student’s health?”

“Forgive me,” he says, knowing your argument is grossly illogical but playing along with you anyway. “I didn’t realize I was being so callous.”

“Well, as long as you’re prepared to make it up to me.” You pluck the nearly-empty cup from his hand, hold his half-lidded stare as you finish the last remaining swallow. You can feel his eyes on you as you tilt it back, and suddenly his gaze turns physical, fingers tracing the long line of your throat. Even when you put the crystal back on his table he remains, grazing the edge of your collarbone, pressing into the dip between your clavicles.

It’s a short distance to bridge.

He tastes like the Demonus you shared. But there are layers to him, multiple notes, and underneath it you can pick out the insistent lick of flame, the muted sting of pepper. And then, lingering, something salted and earthy that you’ve never been able to name. He reaches up, one hand cradling the back of your head so he can hold you to him, kiss you deeper. You run your tongue gently across his bottom lip, and when he makes a pleased noise in his throat you pull away. 

He lets you go, but his eyes are dark, watching you. _Wanting_. 

You smile. Lift his fingers to your mouth and kiss the pads. Turn his hand so you can repeat the motion on every knuckle of his index. One thumb is pressed to the inside of his wrist, and you feel the sharp jump of his pulse. A single spike, damning tell before it’s smothered. 

You tug, and he follows readily.

He’s reserved here too, always in complete control. Even just walking down the empty hallways, no one awake to witness your dalliance, his face is a mask. Cool, collected. Perfectly serene, as though he has no idea what promises you’re about to fulfill to him tonight, your fingers still threaded through his; warm connection.

But. 

He’s following you awfully closely. Could almost wrap you in the edges of his large coat, if he wanted, he’s tethered so tightly to your side. You stop, suddenly, turn on your heels and press against his chest. Edge below the loosened collar of his shirt (his tie long since abandoned, perhaps around hour two, in a drawer of his desk). You can see the way his eyes dart, just slightly, checking, but. It’s late. The risk is low. And. 

He _wants_ you. 

You love kissing him. Every brush against his lips is different: as changeable as fire, low and burning and unconfined. A rare time when he lets instinct take him, follows his desire unencumbered to its natural conclusion. He is affection and appetite and _need_. Hands tangling in your hair, taking you more immediate against him, every stroke of tongue or fingers scorching, consuming, _alive_.

It’s a short intermission. You drop back down, one hand still curled around his neck. Breathing, panting softly into the space between you. Watching the changing light of black red eyes as he stares down at you and sighs. 

“You need to tell me. Now.” He brushes a lock of hair out of your face; an excuse to rest his skin against your temple. “If you really want to go to sleep.”

You drag your hand over his collarbone, down over the rumpled mess of his vest. Flatten your palm firmly over his chest, curious to see if you can feel his heartbeat through all those layers. Something is there, faint. You can’t decide if it’s real or imagined or the echo of your own frantic pulse. “Maybe later.” 

And there — a flashing, pupils dilating, black overtaking red. More enticing than any imagined response, real and promising and _perfect_. He bends, takes you under your shoulders, your legs, and lifts you in an elegant princess carry. 

“Lucifer!” He’s too clever; timing his lift, the angle of his arms to have you clutching at him, unbalanced. You drape immediately around his neck, careful to keep yourself from restricting his throat. “You must be tired. You don’t have to carry me.” But the admonishment loses its weight by the way you nuzzle beneath his jaw.

“But we have to hurry.” His expression matches his words, too serious for the occasion. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your sleep for _too_ long.”

Every time you enter his room comfort washes over you like a sudden breath of air. The large bed, the ornate art, _another_ elaborate fireplace. Ordinarily this elegant display of luxury would make you feel uncomfortable — a clear interloper in a world you don’t belong to, but. It’s so obviously _his_ , every item carefully chosen, as personal as a signature. (Excepting, maybe, that strange statue in the corner. You generally prefer to forget it). And it all smells like him.

He deposits you carefully on the bed, dark satin sheets whisper-soft and accommodating. Remains, hovering, refusing to give up even a centimetre of space. You trace the edge of his cheek, arch up and press your lips against the defined boundary of his jaw, and he _bows_. 

His hands are already pressing beneath the hem of your shirt, skin seeking skin. Searching and insistent. You can feel the fabric, being pushed up, up, by eager fingers. Can track his movements because he’s leaving a trail, a cool touch followed by heat, your body’s autonomic response. 

You’re being sucked too easily into his rhythm. And normally you _love_ it (even now, you still kind of do), but Lucifer’s had three late nights in a row and . . . He needs something else.

You know what you have to do, but just the thought of that break in contact makes you want to sigh. Whatever time you have, it’s never enough. You take a breath, try to snare your reluctance so it won’t show on your face.“Lucifer, _stop_.” 

You don’t use your pact because you know you don’t have to. He immediately withdraws, hands held carefully at his sides. 

“You’ve changed your mind.” Carefully neutral, no judgment, no disappointment. No, that’s not true. The words are tinged sweeter, low and considerate, if a little tired. 

You laugh, you can’t help it, and his brow furrows. But that’s not what you meant. You know your mind, and you aren’t cruel enough to string him along when he’s given you more than ample opportunity to be clear. “Not exactly.” 

You push yourself to sitting, shift so that he’s caged loosely between your legs. “Swap with me.”

“What do you mean?” The furrow is back, lined less deeply when it only marks confusion. 

You avert your eyes. You’re trying for shy, but coy will do in a pinch. True to form he folds, trying to recapture your gaze, anything to certify your meaning. It’s such an open opportunity. You turn into him, take a kiss by surprise and he offers the softest gasp against your mouth. 

You draw him backwards with you, pulling him over like a blanket. His weight is welcome pressure, half-supported on the arms posted by your head. You’re surrounded by him — his sheets, his scent, his skin — drowning and heady with it. He lets you set the pace, chasing you at every break, waiting for assent before he dives, a satellite pulled into gravity.

He frees one hand, makes his way to your waistband, fingers trailing over your side, your stomach. Dipping just beneath the boundary. You don’t move to stop him, but you should, you _should_ , his nimble fingers already working at your zipper and then—

“Get on the bed,” you mumble into his mouth. 

He stops, creating just enough distance to look into your face. “I beg your pardon?” But it’s soft, more lightly amused than offended. You twist the hairs at his nape, smooth between your fingers. Slick as silk and twice as soft. Keep him in place, his gaze gentled by the weariness you know he’s desperate to disguise.

“You’ve already carried me here. Now it’s time for you to unwind.” 

“Oh?” He flops lightly beside you, falling to his back and stretching his arms out. Sighs, long and relaxed. You let him enjoy the brief peace before you turn, swing your leg and settle yourself on his lap.

One of his hands goes immediate to your thigh, an eyebrow cocking. “What’s this?”

You undo a button on his vest. Another. The silver glints in the light, little winks of _almost, almost, **closer**_. Markers before a sweetly sinful reward. You fold, press your lips against him and feel him warm and pliant underneath you. Run just under the edges of his lapel when you reach the top and lay the fabric open. “Let me take care of you, tonight.”

“Someone’s feeling awfully assertive.” But he doesn’t sound like he minds. You trace the skin just below the messy collar of his shirt, and he hums; appreciative noise. “What were you thinking?”

You’re already working at these buttons too. “You don’t have to worry about it. I’m going to take charge.”

His hand travels to your hip, working itself below your gaping waistband. Rubbing gentle circles into the edge of bone with his thumb. “Do you have a plan?”

“I wonder.” Three more buttons left. Two. One. “Maybe you’ll just have to trust me.” 

And you stop, there. Let your fingers pause at the very end, look down at him, sincere and searching. You won’t go any farther if this isn’t what he wants. You’re about to tell him so, too, but. The expression on his face makes the breath stutter in your chest. Open: unwavering and submissive and the red-bleeding edge of ardent.

He doesn’t have to say it. He can _see_ that he doesn’t, lets a smirk lift to the corner of his mouth as he takes in the sight of you, arrested above him, face transparent with the force of your wonder an unspoken answer to his own. 

And he says it anyway.

“I trust you.”

“ _Oh_.” You don’t mean to let it out. Duck down and pop the last button off, let your palms travel up the line of his navel to his sternum, parting the satin black. Your voice is embarrassingly raspy when you manage, “Good.” Clear your throat, and even if the next words aren’t strong at least they’re steadier. “I’ll do my best to live up to your expectations.”

A breath. It could be laughter, but when your eyes flick to his face it’s only even, fond. He reaches for you with his free hand, takes your fingers and kisses them, an imitation of your earlier affection. “You haven’t disappointed me yet.”

“Only because your expectations were insultingly low,” you say, before you can stop yourself. You close your eyes, instant regret, but there’s a shaking underneath you, vibrations that would be _incredibly_ distracting if it weren’t for the low sounds coming from your demon’s mouth. He actually _is_ laughing.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.” 

You attempt a pout, but you’re too pleased for it to form, genuine. He looks so much younger when he’s laughing. You wrest your fingers free only so you can trace the prominent curve of his cheek, warmed by that sweet, spontaneous joy. “So cruel.”

“Do you think so?” His eyes are brighter now. More aware, more present, more _here_. Exhaustion doesn’t weigh as heavy. 

You wish he always looked like this.

You press back slowly, _drag_ over the growing stiffness in his pants, the tops of his thighs. Move so you can press your next kiss to the hollow of his throat. He doesn’t make any noise, take any breath, but you can feel him, the slightest quiver as you pass over his erection.

“Is there anything you wouldn’t like?” 

He considers you seriously, eyes flashing ravenous over your face. “No.”

“Is there anything you’d _really_ like?”

This time there’s no pause at all. “Oh, _plenty_.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Anything specific?”

“You.” 

Heat flushes through you, every tracking glance stoking your fire. It’s unfair of him to be so provocative when you’re the one who’s supposed to seduce. You press your response into his skin — a slow trail down his chest. “If you have any requests, just let me know.”

He huffs, and you know this one for amusement. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You sit back. Your hands splay above his Adonis belt, the blades of your palms just touching the fabric of his waistband. He's lightly cupping your knee, holding you, keeping you from moving too far away. Trying to maintain some semblance of control even after he’s promised it to you.

That won't do.

You twist, contort to the side and rummage through one of the drawers by his bed. You've been in here often enough to know where, rummaging through his neatly ordered items — _ah_. A long length of red silk drips from your hands, liquid as it flows over his chest. It's bright against the pale expanse, a shock like blood spilling onto skin. You hold it up for his inspection, questioning.

"I don't believe I heard an order." Amused but unwavering. He really _will_ let you do it. 

“You’d have to tell me your safe word, before I start dispensing those.”

“Oh?” He’s indulgently charmed. “You think I’ll need one? I wonder, what _do_ you plan to do to me?”

You make a show of considering, trailing the silk over his breast, down towards his stomach and then lower still. “Maybe I’m going to make you stay here until tomorrow night, make sure you get sufficient rest.”

“I let you have your way a little and you immediately go mad with power.” Smiling, obviously confident you won’t make good on your threat. “Very well. Will ‘Isaiah’ be sufficient?”

“Isaiah?” you ask, confirming. 

There’s the briefest stutter, the flickering of a flame, the brightness of his eyes momentarily interrupted. He releases a breath and it clears. Curiosity rears, eager pupil when he is your subject. But. You won’t ask. Not now. Not tonight. “Yes.” 

“Okay.”

You turn towards the dark paneling of his headboard, pop out the hidden rings. An ingenious design, although you don’t find yourself surprised that he’s built his proclivities into every facet of his bedroom. He has so few places to relax. 

You thread the silk through and secure it. The touch of fabric is familiar, but the implication of your actions now . . . A beat settles in your abdomen, the opening notes before a steady crescendo. 

You take the hand on your knee, lace your fingers together and draw him up, up, upwards. Press a kiss against his wrist before you bind it, after. He tugs experimentally on the bond, but it isn’t too taut. He could escape it if he really wanted to.

“You can make it tighter, you know.” 

“Really?” Your tone is sarcasm and amusement, misleadingly calm despite the fact that you barely manged to swallow your other words. ~~You won’t break if I apply too much pressure?~~

“I _did_ think it might be obvious, but I wasn’t sure if you were erring on the side of consideration.”

“Oh,” you say loftily, “you don’t have to worry about _that_.” You reach behind you, capture his free hand and pull it up to join its brother. “But these aren’t meant to force you. They’re just a . . . reminder.”

“A reminder . . .” he murmurs, testing the bonds again. He’s slightly too forceful, and the knot slips, just slightly. 

You frown, pick it apart so you can redo it. Maybe a _little_ more securely. "Could you _stop_ , please?" 

"Command me."

You turn to him, a pang sharp as hunger growing, coiling upwards. The look on his face is piercing, calling to that appetite within you like he can _sense_ it. You caress his cheek with gentle fingers. Your words are soft but they’re firm, brokering no argument. "Stay still." 

The smile that lights his face is sinful. "As you wish."

“Good boy.” Honey sweet and approving. You _slide_ off him, a teasing drag of friction between your legs. Draw your hands down towards his pants and slot your fingers below his waistband. The muscles of his abdomen tense slightly, gorgeously responsive. 

You’re getting quick with his fastenings. Buttons, zipper. Barely bother undressing him, just hook into his belt loops and tug enough to release him comfortably. Palm him over satin shorts and feel his heat, solid and receptive. Let your fingers ghost over his head, the thin fabric a barrier between your skin. It’s already damp.

“You’re so impressive,” you say, and there’s a tremor in his limbs but he remains fixed perfectly in place. And looking at him; the sculpture of his torso, the clear and stunning outline of his erection, the fervid focus of his eyes. He’s _striking_. But it’s more than that. You can see him so _precisely_ , especially here. Like this. It’s almost like every layer of clothing is another defense, and the more skin he bares the more of himself is on display. 

And what you see already is _amazing_.

You let your fingers move lightly, enjoying his body’s reaction. Ghost up and down the shaft, circling, circling, going higher and higher and never delving beneath that soft layer of black. The rise and fall of his chest; quicker breaths, still silent. The ramping anticipation in his eyes, just the barest suggestion of red the longer you tease. 

You bend down, press a soft kiss against the protruding damp. He doesn’t thrust upwards but there’s a jolt in his thighs: forced control. You lave your tongue along the side, taste the floral perfume of detergent with the slight tang of his pre-cum. Apply hard suction, a vacuum, sealing his head just inside your mouth. Never quite going to the base.

A pant. You can _hear_ him now, just barely. The slightest hint of laboured breathing. _Gorgeous_. You think you can reward that. 

He nearly springs into your hands the second your fingers dive beneath his boxers. A familiar girth that you circle, automatic, the warmth of him a welcome balm in your hands. You pump loosely, once, twice, his skin still slick from your earlier ministrations. Feel him trembling at the lack of friction. 

“You’re doing _wonderful_ love,” you say, leaning forwards, pressing the length of him against your cheek. He sucks in air, sharp. Eyes roving and intent. He pulses against your skin.

“So impatient.”

“I didn’t say a word.” His voice is remarkably even. 

You hum, rubbing your thumb over his glans. “Maybe not out loud.”

“You think you know me so well?” He sounds pleased. 

“Let’s find out.”

You tilt your head, kiss at his base, just above his scrotum. He jumps against you and you can’t help your satisfied smile. Lick lightly against a prominent vein, following the line of it up, up, to just below the corona. He’s still leaking, fluid dripping down the side and landing on your waiting tongue. Delicious. 

It's _so_ hard to let go of him.

You release him all at once, watch as his dick bounces light against his stomach. He hisses, a low stream, and you crawl off the bed; the better to appreciate the picture of him, framed beautifully on his rumpled sheets. Wrists bound, chest bared, the leaking tip of his stiffly displayed cock. 

He's _beautiful_. 

You move to standing. Meet his stare, hook your hands into your waistband, work the garment _slowly_ down your hips. Every slide is a caress, the weak shadow of his touch. You cant your pelvis from side to side, a measured shimmy. Kick it deliberately off your legs, never breaking eye contact.

Next, your shirt. You undo the buttons _slowly_ , deliberate. Turn halfway so he is met with your back, the rounded apple of your ass. Let the sleeves slide over your shoulders, down your arms, so the whole thing crumples on the floor. _Fold_ over, present yourself before rolling slowly up. 

If looks were touch he would be ravishing you. Every glance outlining the path his hands would take, touching, kneading, _grabbing_. You can remember the feeling of him, all _over_ you, memory ingrained in every centimetre of skin. So _full_ of him before you’ve even started.

And tonight it’s your turn.

You spin, saunter back over, _slide_ between his legs. Lower yourself so you can rest your cheek at his hip, let a whiff against his sensitive skin, red and neglected. 

“How do you feel?” you ask, every word the lightest pressure against his weeping cock. 

A breath. “Fine.” 

“ _Perfect_.” 

You shift up, press your lips fleeting against his shaft. Then move, gather the rumpled fabric below his thighs and tug gently downwards. He _could_ be difficult, adhere strictly to your command to ‘Stay still’, but he lifts enough for you to slide his clothes down smoothly. You reach his shoes, remove each one with caring efficiency; untie, then cup the back of his ankle so you can work them tenderly off. 

You rise to your hands, travel upwards, your mouth marking the lightest trail around the valleys of his body. Run with even pressure up his calves, his thighs, kneading, working through the tension of his muscle. Up, up, flicking a tongue briefly against a single nipple, letting yourself linger at his clavicle, finally diving into the juncture of shoulder and neck, working with resolute intent. He squirms under your attention, drops his head to the backboard to find grounding. You’re pressing marks into his skin — something he’d usually never allow. But. You want to keep a record; clear evidence of your feeling.

A free hand reaches up, moves from the base of his neck towards his crown, fingers curled and lightly scratching. Small, circular motions that soothe, have him releasing all that tension in his shoulders, his jaw. You angle just enough to work along that strong line, over his cheek, his nose, meandering up towards his forehead. By the time you manage a kiss against his temples you’re nearly pressed against him, his face smothered in your chest, your pelvis flush against his torso. There’s a twitch in his arms as he tamps the urge to hold you, pull you even closer.

Your fingers are still working in his hair. “Tell me what you want.”

“I thought you were in charge, tonight?” Of _course_ he’d be a brat. Strange how he can make even that look dignified.

You lean down, so close to his lips he would only have to purse them to taste you. “You’re allowed to make requests. I know I said so.”

His eyes are heavily-lidded, and this close you can’t see anything but shadow. “Then I’ll let you know when I have one.” 

You draw back. If that’s the game he wants to play you’re more than capable of indulging. You circle his wrists, follow the lines of his radius down, to where his sleeves are pushed around his elbows. Trace his triceps through the fabric, pass over his rumpled collar, splay your hands around his neck, thumbs stroking softly at his cheeks. You’re holding a star in your palms and stealing its light for yourself.

You _want_ to kiss him and he knows it. 

Instead you bend down to nose against his hair. Litter soft moments of affection against his crown, the quiet insinuation of adoration in each and every breath. Feel the way he tilts unconsciously into you, his body more honest about its desires than his voice. You relent, press a full if fleeting kiss at his temple.

Then you withdraw, pulling your presence away. You can see the suggestion of a shiver travel along his shoulders as cool air rushes in to take your place. Sit back on your legs and admire him for a moment, all his sternness melting into comfort. 

Last time, you think you left it in his drawers. You reach over, the pull of wood as you slide it open jarring interruption in the silence. Pick through his selection of toys carefully, conscious of his meticulous order and the fact that in the morning, this will all go back to being his. You don’t want to make _too_ much of a mess.

You pull out an impossibly long feather. The fibres on the end are fluffy and down, dyed red. You pass it underneath your jaw, feel the tickle of it a caress. Close your eyes so you can focus on the subtle impression of it against your skin. There’s a slight jump, his legs pressing below your thighs. 

You lean back, his cock resting comfortably against your crotch, still straddling him. Swivel the shaft in your hands, and let the tip brush just against his nose. He scrunches it, instinctive reaction. Doesn’t let his eyes stray from your face even as you drag the feather down lower, lower, tracing the lines of his mouth, dragging over his lips. They part as you leave them, soft exhalation ruffling the vane. 

You use it like an extension of your arm, tracing his contours along a well-worn path, following a map you’ve made a million times before. The sharp angles of bone, the defined set of his pecs, down to the toned muscles of his torso. He shudders, his abdomen going concave as he takes a breath. Holds it, like that will change the sensitivity of his skin.

Every line you follow is met with resistance, reflexive. So powerfully affected by the lightest touch. Lower, lower, the impressive cut of his stomach, the deep v of his pelvis as you skirt widely around his erection. The second even the vaguest edge of the feather breezes past the head of his cock it jerks, dampening the down. His breathing stutters.

You drag it up his shaft, the softest stroke. Passing up and down the underside with careful concentration, letting the full width of it encompass him, no break in contact. Mesmerized by the way his body answers every graze with perfect truth. His reactions are so pure; untempered. You’re tempted to continue teasing him, just like this, but. It would be malicious of you to drag this on forever.

He really _does_ need to rest. 

“If you keep going like this, I’m never going to finish.” 

The husk of his voice is low, quiet in the silence but still so loud. It’s the closest you’re going to get to a concession. 

You flick your eyes upwards, head still angled at your careful motions. Still, with the very tip of the feather resting lightly against his glans. “Maybe that’s not the point.”

He nearly growls, clear frustration. “Then what is?”

“To relax. To feel good. Let yourself be taken care of.” 

He actually seems taken aback. You’ve surprised him. “I don’t—” 

“Shhh.” A kiss at his throat, closing off his protestations. You shift upwards, light another at his wrists, still bound to the headboard. “Just let it all go.”

You swing off him, drop the feather to his table. Let your eyes rove over every flushed expanse, face more fond than hungry as you remove your underwear. His lips are closed, watching with tender curiosity as you reach down, slow, and pull the oil and candle from another drawer. 

“Do you have a light?” you ask, holding the paraffin candle deliberately aloft. Lucifer could certainly handle hotter, but even this is pushing your boundaries. 

He smirks at you and a flame bursts on the wick, the warmth flaring. For the briefest moment, it makes the rest of the room seem colder. 

You settle it on the surface, careful to keep the feather from incendiary distance. Grab the oil and crawl over him, conscious of his shirt still trapped beneath his body. The tub is settled intentionally on his abdomen, his ambient temperature warming it from the bottom up. You grip the fabric underneath him, making the suggestion of an upwards motion. He arches forwards, his chest directly at your eye level and you have to resist the urge to lave attention on him with your tongue. You turn, just slightly, and push. The clothes pillow behind his head, hopelessly rumpled.

He doesn’t mention it, only cocks his eyebrow at you. It’s going to wrinkle terribly tomorrow. But you’ll deal with that problem when it becomes one. ~~Besides, the little D’s probably have some idea of how to iron out a shirt.~~

You trail your fingers down over his chest, hovering just above his skin, never touching. Pluck the oil off his stomach and open it, slather it liberally between your hands. Amber and jasmine wafts up, the perfume gaining strength from the heat of your palms. Fasten the lid back on with a slippery grip and toss it off to the side.

Your hands are floating over his body, so close the temperature is ramping between your skin. You remain suspended just above his pecs, the place where his heart beats so loudly you think you could almost feel it, vibrations pulsing outwards into the warming air. Hold for a moment. Another. 

The look you cast him under your lashes is questioning. You aren’t looking for permission — you know you have it, if the way his eyes are burning is any indication — you want a request. You want him to _tell_ you what he wants, to make his desires known to you even when he can’t use his own power to fulfill them. You have his trust but you want him to be active participant in his pleasure too. 

His voice is a rasp, but even still it’s measured. Full. “Please.”

And then you _touch_ him. Rest your palms lightly against the hard muscle, the contact electricity on your skin. Nearly feel a shudder in your arms, a shock so impressive you hold in place for a beat and close your eyes. Feel the deep bass of his pulse a sweet and steady note, stuttering just once, noticeably, at the beginning of its measure before it evens out in perfect andante tempo. 

You move with strong pressure, knead and rub in small circles, chasing the tension knotted up in rigid lines. He’s unraveling, soft sighs as you work out the hours of stress, the burden of his multiple responsibilities. Melting back into the bed, the inflexible posture of his severe restraint falling away. All the lines in his face smoothing to still water.

You edge beneath the sleeves, caress over his biceps, down towards his elbows. The silk of his shirt is soft against the backs of your hands, the fabric too tight as you work your way further in. You’ve trapped yourself against him; a wonderful cage in which to be caught.

His eyes flutter open, a shining flame refracted through a focused lens. Adoring and amorous in equal measure. He could reach up, bridge the gap with nothing more than a tilt of his neck . . . 

You drag your fingers inwards, edge the blade of his clavicles and move towards his neck. Hold him, properly, perfectly, in place. He makes no move to break from your grip. 

You _really_ want to kiss him.

Instead you drop backwards, make your way down. Massage the lean figure, splay your fingers against his bare waist, along his ribs. The cut of his abdomen, the bones of his hips. Work at the line between pelvis and thigh. 

Damn, even his _legs_ are stiff.

You press deep into the muscle, follow the natural form of it to encourage curative release. He looses a low moan, more air than sound. Relaxes so completely he’s only held upright by the lax bindings at his wrists. You rub your knuckles against the denser knots, going harder, _deeper_ until you feel everything uncoil. And then he sighs, those three strained nights delivered from deep within his chest. 

He’s loose-limbed and spread-eagle, a jarringly indecorous display. A wholly different man without the weight of all that formal deportment tucked in as tightly as his shirts. A _shockingly_ lazy smile is playing on his face. 

“How do you feel?” you ask. You reach towards the base of his softening erection. Draw light over the organ with circling touch. 

“Amazing,” he admits, eyes half-lidded. He could be halfway to asleep if you couldn’t still see the interest shining through. 

“Do you want to go to sleep?”

He twitches in your hand, the very affront of the suggestion turning him to wakefulness. “Are you done with me so soon?”

“ _Never_.”

But you let him go. Sit with your legs beneath you, kneeling just enough to divorce from his skin. He cocks an eyebrow at you, waiting.

“You have to ask me,” you say. You’re pressed back, watching him, hands to yourself. “Ask me for anything and I’ll give it to you.”

He takes a breath. 

“Kiss me.”

“ _Oh,_ Lucifer.” You duck down, press eager against his mouth like you’re the one being rewarded. Hot and desperate, that first pass of tongue already having him yielding, opening beneath you. You dive, cradle him carefully, holding him tight to your lips so you can taste, can feed him your devotion without the distraction of clumsy words.

“It’s cheating,” you whisper softly, barely a hair between you, “to ask for what I want.”

“Don’t be mistaken, love.” Casual mischief in his eyes. “Our interests just happened to align.”

You laugh, lean down and kiss him again. Again and again and again. He responds hungrily, rustling slightly against the silk and stilling before he actually slips out. You stroke along the curve of one cheek, drop a hand and grasp him firmly. Pump, once, up along his shaft.

“Can you handle a little more?”

“ _Please_.” So polite. Just that knife’s edge of supplication that makes you want to hold him closer, keep him skin-to-skin without ever letting go. His eyes are glowing, molten. 

“So beautifully eager.” But you don’t tease. Only run your hand over him, two times, three. Position him just at your entrance. The tip is hot. So, _impossibly_ hot, a warmth that radiates outwards from one central point. You settle over him, centimetre by aching centimetre, feel the stretch as he pushes through you, thick and _filling_. Hold halfway, enjoying the soft pants of his slackened composure. He doesn’t jerk upwards but there’s a pulsing, reaction that he can’t control broadcasting beats direct inside you.

You pull up around his head just to tease, feel the trembling interruption of his pulse and then. Drop back down, bottoming out. Full and aching and right at the onset of a haze-inducing pleasure.

He normally likes to set the pace. Punishing: strong and rough but perfectly metered, the frenzy of his arousal drawn to insane highs after an hour or so spent edging you. Wild abandon of his pristine discipline, more candid snapshot of his desire. You don’t often get to see his face then, while he unravels. Buried behind you or kissing you or tucked against your shoulder. But. 

He’s under your control now. 

The glaring red draws your eye, over and over, to his wrists held overhead. Not helpless (never helpless, he is still a demon, after all) but submissive. You told him they were reminders but they’re more than that. They’re _choice_. They would be almost too easy to slip, but you want him to _choose_ , again and again and again. 

And he does.

Willing to concede to your touch and your whims, to put the burden of his pleasure solely in your hands. 

He's so yielding beneath you, so sweet, and your mind blanks out with the intoxicating suggestion that he really _does_ trust you. And he'd said it, certainly, but here is real and tangible evidence, his unraveling beneath your careful pressure. 

You want to prove that it isn't misplaced. 

It’s a deceptively gentle pace for the tempo. Every thrust made under your own power, controlled lift and descent. You can _keep_ that drag of friction, mark it against every scant milimetre as it passes. Catalog the depth of it, the angle, the sweetly aching girth. Stare down into his face and memorize the composition of that uncontrolled expression.

When you see the slightest tremble in his jaw, you obligingly speed up.

A blessing in Hell. A strange heterodoxy, a theological confusion. But you can’t think what else to call it, this gift that he’s allowed you, open, with both hands. You stare down at his flushed face, gasping and rapturous and _perfect_ and you think _Yes_. _This_. This beautiful, shining moment that fills your chest with warmth and tender feeling and makes you heart beat too loudly in that cavernous space. If only you could hold onto it forever.

He’s getting close. You can feel it in the tensing underneath you, the way he bites off every groan like that will erase the stain of loosing one. Those stuttered half-exultations in muttered Latin, rote and lyrically measured that you’d swear were prayers if you didn’t know any better.

Your ecstasy is drifting through a steady rise, nowhere near as close to cresting as his own. But that’s okay. Tonight you aren’t looking to find your pleasure.

His release ripples outwards, face tensing with shocking aggression before it clears. Traveling in tremors through his extremities, so minute you wouldn’t see it if you weren’t so familiar with the sensation, pressed against your skin. You’ve never been able to see it before. Like this. A blinding sense of peace, almost illuminated by the contentment of his orgasm. For a single, bright moment, you think you’re staring at an angel.

His cum is hot, thick and significant inside you. You don’t get off, just lean down closer, closer, crawl your hands up his chest so your forehead can meet his. Even still you can feel him working through the aftershocks, pulsing weak against your walls.

He tilts his jaw up, brings his lips close to your face. 

“You’re mine.” A whisper, words impeccably clear. “You _belong_ to me.”

You used to think it was arrogance. Force. But his stare is too earnest; proud confession. And you’ve since realized the statement is a question of assent. A constant revisitation of your agreed upon conditions, an opportunity for you to withdraw your consent at any time. 

“You’re half right,” you say. You trail your fingers down his neck, rest lightly against his pulse. Even now you can feel it, always beating so much harder than your own. Fantastic evidence for your infant hypothesis: demons feel everything much more strongly than the rest. Part, you assume, of the reason they react so vehemently, so instinctively. Too much emotion to control.

“Half?” he murmurs.

“We belong to each other.”

“What a pleasant way to view it.” He closes the distance, captures you with a kiss that has you _melting_ against him. You can hear the soft rustle of silk as he slips out of his bonds and you groan, nip gently at his lip and pull away. 

“Stop.” No magic, but all the cadence of a command. He cocks an eyebrow at you but stills. Lets you reach up and re-secure his bindings.

He stretches his arms lightly overhead, and you move immediate to the muscle, trying to massage away the ache. He's been holding for so long. “It must be _your_ turn. What else is left for you to do?”

“Aftercare, of course.”

“You’ve been almost _absurdly_ gentle with me,” he says, amused rather than offended. “I didn’t think I’d need to say it, but I can stand a significant bit of rough handling.”

“I _know_ that," you say, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. You're almost offended. "I wanted to see how much you could take of the opposite.” 

“ _Ah_.” He averts his gaze. Suddenly flushing, after a full night’s activities. _This_ is where he becomes bashful, unused to such cherished treatment. You wonder if he can feel the full depth of it. Your affection, your _love_. If it’s possible that even a fraction of that overflowing emotion has been revealed in your careful tending.

“I may have let the candle burn too early,” you frown, remembering it for the first time. It’s significantly lower, wax drips pooling on the surface. You twist to the side, groping through his sheets for the long-discarded oil. He strangles a hiss as the motion tugs him, still inside you. “I don’t believe we’re quite at the point where wax is appropriate.”

“Sorry,” you say, regretfully pulling off. He sighs as you return him to himself, his cock flopping wetly back against his abdomen. It’s followed by a thick drip of his cum, leaking as you reposition. You dip back into the oil, slather it between your hands and pass lightly over his skin.

He tenses, sucks in a sharp breath as you move. Lips thinned, eyes closed. Still adorably sensitive. You reapply where your activity has rubbed it away, skirting a wide circle around his still sensitive dick. Lean down and press a kiss direct to the head, licking off the mess. Another gasp, followed by a half-hearted little glare. 

You aren’t sorry this time.

You press a kiss against his side. Reach over and pick up the candle, follow it with a drip of hot wax. You’re aware it doesn’t burn, must only be the shadow suggestion of heat. It runs a higher risk of hurting you than him. But. You like the idea of sealing your touch against his skin, warmth close enough to your own temperature to hold it down, more real than memory.

You want your kiss to _linger_.

The v of his pelvis, the line of his thighs. The sweet expanse of lean muscle over his legs. Back up, towards his abs, his sternum. Finally, finally, that space above his heart, a beat you can feel even against the press of your lips. You seal every kiss with wax, make the impression of it stay. And he watches it all, unwavering, eyes burning and devotion.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“On the contrary,” you say, holding his gaze. Searching. “I’m being very deliberate.”

“So you’re doing it on purpose,” he murmurs. “I hope you’re prepared to accept the consequences.” 

He frees one wrist from its bindings and you pout. " _I'm_ supposed to do that."

"Oh? How thoughtless of me." Slips it complacently back in only so he can say, “Please. Release me, _master_.”

“How very unfair.” You lean down, defeated, brush against his jaw and press more tokens of affection there. “You know I’d do anything if you asked me like that.”

“That’s rather the point.” Pushing foul advantage. You raise your arms anyway, undo the ties, let your fingers feather over the pristine skin of his wrists. Drag them down to meet you, more kisses that you give freely, eager to cover every spare expanse. 

He twists in your hands, taking you instead, drawing you forwards with his other arm at your back. Wax cracking, worshipful and devouring, and so, so ready to return the favour.

* * *

His shower is utilitarian. Glass and chrome, with at least the indulgent comfort of heated tile. The rain shower beats down, water running through your hair, into your face. Everything tastes like soap.

He holds you, back to chest, skin to skin, arms warm around your waist. Grossly inefficient for your purposes, but you can’t bring yourself to force him away. Let him roam your naked body to his pleasure, all under the guise of scrubbing you both clean.

“We’ll have to get out soon, Lucifer,” you say, turning to face him. “You need to go to sleep.” 

He hums, ducking down to kiss you. Water and soap wash out every other flavour but he’s sleepy desire and intimate warmth. Unhurried and content.

You smother a laugh against his mouth. “I’m serious.” Reach behind you, slap your palms against the walls until you find the knob and stop the water. The steam lingers, sensuous and warm. But you brace against the slap of cold and open the doors.

“Ah!” A violent shiver, before you grab a towel and wrap it carefully around yourself. Pick up the spare and approach the Pride demon, sinful and tempting and dripping water all over his bathroom floors. He lifts an arm but you don’t let him take it from you, instead encroaching on his space, passing it reverently over the extended appendage. Then move; his neck, his shoulders, down his back. Drying him in large swathes, the most gentle touch against his skin. 

“You’re spoiling me,” he says, indulgently fond. You reach up, cover him with the towel and work in careful motions against his hair. Pick up the hairdryer abandoned in one of his drawers and turn it on for the first time in what must be months. Work in easy little circles through the strands, tender. 

“Yes.”

You let him put his boxers on himself, shrugging into one of the (two) large, casual shirts that you’re fairly certain he only keeps for your use. Take him by the hand, fingers clasped, touching, touching, always touching. Damp footprints on his carpet. 

Then you spin on your heel. Fall onto the bed and tug him with you. He sprawls, messy, almost _wiggles_ inelegantly onto the bed, sated and drowsy. Arms open. “Come here, love.”

And you go. Curl against his chest and feel the comfort of that thundering beat beneath your ear. Press tight against him and finally, _finally_ , fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried? For gender-neutral? So if it didn't work please let me know.


End file.
